[Illustration:
PRICE, 50 CENTS.
“_Know ye not who would be free
themselves must strike the blow._”—_BYRON._
TWENTY
YEARS
A
FAKIR
GATE CITY BOOK AND NOVELTY COMPANY,
_OMAHA, NEB._
PRICE, 50 CENTS.
]
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TWENTY YEARS
A
FAKIR
BY
S. J. W.
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[Illustration]
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Gate City Book and Novelty Company,
Omaha, Neb.
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Copyrighted 1899,
by
=THE GATE CITY BOOK AND NOVELTY CO.=,
Omaha, Neb.
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CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Starting Out—Becoming Ambitious—Leaving Home—Hotel Porter—Card
Business—Lightning Rod Agent—Traveling Men—The Accident.
CHAPTER II.
Busted—Soap Signs—Walking—The Two Actors—Free Theatres—Jumping Bills—The
Other Fakir—Pen Schemes—Street Talk—The Friendly Haystack.
CHAPTER III.
Meeting Prof. Carter—The Music Scheme—Flowers and Novelties—The
Ladies—The Soap Racket—Street Gags and Jokes—The Sinking Vessel.
CHAPTER IV.
The Contemptible Piano Tuner—The Biographical Write-up Fake—The
Flattered Black-smith.
CHAPTER V.
Fakir Maxims—A Happy Meeting—Auction Business—Talk and Auction Gags—The
Boy Auctioneer—Parting with Prof. Carter.
CHAPTER VI.
Getting onto Scheme Goods—Frightening the Ladies—Trick at Church
Fair—Street Work—The Catchy Little Look-backs, and Giving Them Away—The
Horse and the Loaf of Bread Trick—Handling Microscopes.
CHAPTER VII.
The Museum Scheme and the Six Widows—Traveling Without Paying Railroad
Fare—Living on Free Lunches—At a Low Ebb—The Animated Chocolate Drop—Old
Auntie from Smoky Row—The Corn Doctor—The Excited Mob—Not Only Broke,
but Dead-broke—The Letter from Home—Getting Out of Town.
CHAPTER VIII.
The New Doctor and Professional Grafter—Medicine Fake—The Electric
Battery and Money—Fun with Crowd in the Street—Selling Pipes and Giving
Watches Away—Fooling the Farmers—The Circus, Turnips and the
Elephant—Working the Hotel Landlords.
CHAPTER IX.
Side Lines and Schemes of Various Kinds—The Glass Pen—Pie Scheme Choked
Off—Selling Notions from Wagon—Fighting the Railroad Bonds—Forced to
Leave Town—Legislated Out of Business—A Warning and the Escape—The
Accident—The Penny Raffling Scheme.
CHAPTER X.
Catching Suckers—Biting Myself—The Hospital Nurse and Mail Order
Schemes—Working Saloon Men on Bible Racket.
CHAPTER XI.
The Portrait Business—Tricks of the Trade—The Band and Hall
Plan—Excitement and Joke at Voting Contest—The Frame Scheme.
CHAPTER XII.
Tricks in Delivering and Collecting—The Stingy Landlord and the
Prunes—Day Board $3.00 per Week—Drummers $2.00 per Day—The Elopement.
CHAPTER XIII.
Working the Saloon Keeper for an Extra Five—Alone
Again—Arrested—Fighting the License—Sick—The Insurance Scheme—The Wheel
and Cigar Dodge—The Stage Hold-up—The Horse Doctor and Cholera—Cigars,
Two for a Nickel—Making a Preacher Swear.
CHAPTER XIV.
Temperance Town and Cold Tea Racket—Busted Again—Money Making
Schemes—The Shoemaker Couldn’t Sleep—Going Back to Street Work—The Fifty
Thousand Dollar Money Deception—Jewelry Packages to Be Used Any Old
Way—Some More Street Jokes—A Watch and Chain for Twenty-five Cents.
CHAPTER XV.
Selling Musical Instruments—Trickery and Deception—Looking for Something
New—Selling the Roaster—The Canvass.
CHAPTER XVI.
Selling Bibles—Selling Books—What Was Said—Working the
Customers—Curiosity—Public Meetings and Library Clubs.
CHAPTER XVII.
Adding to Bank Account—Looked Better, Felt Better and Was Better—Selling
Encyclopedias—Complete Canvass—Tricky and Persistent—Advertising
Schemes—Tricks of the Present Day—Disguises—How Different Business Men
Were Worked—Strategy.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Rebuffs and Insults—The Lawyer, the Doctor and the Coon—Avoiding a
License—Working the City Marshal—Jokes with the Milliner—Banking Twelve
Thousand Dollars.
CHAPTER XIX.
The Real Estate Fake—Booming a Town—Making a Fortune—Tricks of Other
People—All This World Is a Fake and Every Person in It a Fakir—The
Politician and the Widow—A Diamond Ring for Two Cents.
CHAPTER XX.
Married and Settled Down—Retired and Happy—A Dip in the Lake—The World
Is Round and Wide—Farewell.
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TWENTY YEARS A FAKIR.
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INTRODUCTION.
The old adage, “An open confession is good for the soul,” has no bearing
on my case. I did not write this book to ease my conscience; but of my
own free will, for my own amusement—and for yours, too, I trust. I am
going to tell you how I made my money.
I will acknowledge in the outset that I was a fakir of the fakirs, a
Simon-pure article. Today I occasionally run across an old acquaintance,
who greets me with an admonishing grin, and the apostrophe, “Look at the
airs he puts on now; and I can remember when he hadn’t two dimes to rub
together.”
Yes, my friend, your memory serves you right, but now I have my
compensations. I can take my ease among the luxuries of a comfortable
home; I can lean back on the cushions of a brougham, as neat a turnout
as you will see on the Central Park drive; I can occupy a box at the
opera, or finger my bank-book, in which the figures are comfortable, and
the balance on the right side.
It was ambition for wealth which drove me out in the world, to look
about and hustle; and I acknowledge freely that hustle I did, in the
fullest sense of the term.
What have I done?
Rather, what have I not done along the lines of a fakir’s avocation? I
believe at various times I have handled everything sold on the road. In
giving you the arguments and methods employed in my different canvasses
I have drawn solely from actual experience and observation, and
endeavored as explicitly as possible to show how I overcame every
obstacle and objection, and attained a flattering degree of success.
For obvious reasons, an accredited fakir would stand no show in running
for public office; but he runs for everything else in sight, and allows
the public offices to take care of themselves. In general, he is a
happy-go-lucky chap, who sleeps with one eye open, and dreams of 200 per
cent. profits. He is a solid, windy bluff; an unscrupulous, honest
trader; a rollicking, sober fellow; a truthful prevaricator; a generous
absorber of money; a free dispenser of advice; a necessary adjunct to a
circus, and not always thrown away at a church fair. He is the
profitable terror of the hotel proprietor, the mash of the same
proprietor’s daughters, and the life of a friendly game of draw; always
ready to shovel snow in July, or mow a blue grass lawn in January, if he
can, as he certainly will, make his account out of such occupation. To
summarize, he is a bundle of contradictions—easy, yet hard to
understand; overflowing with the milk of human kindness, but
professionally hard as rocks. In the way of business, no game is too
high or too low for him to fly at or swoop down upon.
The life of a fakir is not easy sailing. He strikes many a stumbling
block along the road, and is hampered by many a disadvantage. He can
have no continuous abiding place. He must move with the tide, and shift
his operations from day to day. The business of this week will be the
reminiscence of next. New fields, new customers, new fakes; for these he
must be constantly on the alert, and work them to the most extreme
limit. While on the road he is practically a citizen without a country
and a man without a home.
This book is not launched upon the sea of public approval as a literary
gem. It is merely an expose of the tricks and triumphs of twenty years
of successful faking, and as such, without more words of explanation,
allow me to present it.
THE AUTHOR.
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CHAPTER I.
STARTING OUT.
BECOMING AMBITIOUS—LEAVING HOME—HOTEL PORTER—CARD BUSINESS—LIGHTNING ROD
AGENT—THE ACCIDENT—TWELVE GLASSES OF WATER.
I was born in the good old State of Illinois, my birthplace being on a
farm just twenty miles out of Chicago. Here I lived until I was eighteen
years of age. My father was fairly well fixed as a farmer and gave me as
good an education, both classical and musical, as a country residence
could afford. In those early days of my life the western half of the
United States was virtually in its infancy, and all around me, in
whatever direction the eye might turn, new enterprises were being
launched with a view to development of the country. Reading of these
created a desire on my part to see some of them, and perhaps take my
humble part in the great work of building up the new side of the nation.
One day I would read of a new railroad building here; another day of a
new town starting there. Fresh sections of the country were being opened
up, with hundreds of channels and opportunities for making money. The
glowing description of a hundred new Meccas, given by their sanguine
projectors, worked my curiosity to a very high tension, and the more I
thought of them the stronger grew my desire to get out in the world and
see, and before I fairly knew it my mind was made up.
For eighteen long years (pleasant ones I must confess) I had lived on
the farm, and had never so much as ridden on a railroad train. No wonder
I thought it high time to get out and see with my own eyes what was
going on in this great, round world, looking meantime for the niche in
it which I was to fill.
One day I told father of my desires and intentions. He ridiculed my
ideas, and, when that was of no avail, tried solid argument. He showed
me that farming was an honorable and sure profession, and the life of
the farmer one that was both pleasant and independent. He went on to say
that if I remained with him I would grow up to be a respected citizen,
and eventually become owner of the farm. If I aspired to political
honors I could obtain almost anything I wanted. I could be a member of
the district school board. At some later day I might be township
trustee, or even reach the sublime position of a county commissioner.
But, no. The seed had been sown, and it was too late to pull up the
sprouted plant. I wanted to travel and see something of the world. I was
determined to have experience with and insight into the rugged, rough
and rapid side of life—and I got it. I was just burning up with
enthusiasm. I desired to move around, to expand, to go out and “hustle,”
and grow rich myself, if I could.
I confess I hated to leave my parents and the good old home, though the
conversation with my father showed me that his opposition would not be
extreme. I lingered around for several days, unwilling to declare my
positive intention, but awaiting some favorable opportunity and good
excuse to cut loose from the ties of home.
Both came. I went out one day with father to build a shed for the
chickens, and an argument arose as to the best way of proceeding. He
wanted his way; I wanted mine. The controversy continued until father
got mad and shoved me aside, calling me a d— fool.
It was the nearest approach to swearing I had ever heard him make. My
chance had come. Picking up my coat, and facing my worthy lord, I said:
“Dad, I have the honor, sir, of being your son.”
With that I returned to the house. Three days later I left the farm.
On the morning of my departure I embraced my dear old mother and my
sister, and accompanied by my father drove into “town.” We stopped at a
place then known as lower State Street.
We conversed together for some minutes, he giving me the usual, good,
fatherly advice, with a “God bless you, my son,” etc. At last he turned
to go, and as he did so slipped a twenty-dollar bill into my hand, while
I could see the tears starting in his eyes at what seemed to him almost
an eternal parting. I watched the going of the good old man as far as I
could see him, and those were the most unpleasant moments of my whole
life. I believe, had I possessed the nerve, I would have taken the first
wagon I could find going that way and returned home.
I was in for it, however, and having decided in my mind that I had to
stick it out, this feeling soon wore off in the light of the strange
sights and stranger fancies inspired in a pedestrian tour through the
heart of Chicago.
My first desire was to become somewhat acquainted with the city. I was
not yet worrying about “a job,” for I had plenty of money in my pocket.
Including the twenty dollars given me by father, my store of wealth
reached the almost fabulous amount of one hundred dollars, and I had a
strong suspicion that before that could give out I would become a
millionaire.
Being from the country, everything looked grand to me. I bought every
fake that was in sight, and took in everything that came along. For days
the revelry was high. Side-shows and museums charmed me. I listened to
the patter of the street venders, allowing myself to be “worked” by
every one of them. I patronized liberally the street musicians, and even
dropped a little coin with the fortune tellers. For a time I lived in
this kind of a fool’s paradise. Then I retired to my room and took an
account of stock.
I found I had bought numerous kinds of soap, many bottles of cologne,
and fewer of medicine that would cure every ailment ever heard of on
earth. I had tin whistles galore, and all the useless knick-knacks under
the sun.
I also had three dollars and eighty cents in cash. When this balance was
struck I understood that it was time for serious work to begin. I threw
away the whole batch of impracticable accumulations and began to hunt
round for something to do.
After “looking around” all day, and meeting with many rebuffs, I
succeeded in getting a job in a hotel as a sort of all-round rustler.
Being a strong country lad the heavy work all fell to my share; and I
want to tell you right now that before the second day was over I fully
realized what it was to be away from home, and thrown out into the world
upon my own resources. I was made to handle heavy baggage, carry water
and coal, and do a thousand other things for which my main capacity was
strength and awkwardness.
I was guyed by every one and given nicknames of every sort. Some would
call me “Sport;” others, “Snipes,” “Jiggers,” “His Nibs,” while all
ordered me around as if I were really and truly a nobody, instead of the
son of a well-to-do farmer not over twenty miles away.
I slept in a large inside room upstairs with the rest of the male help,
which was all packed in together, colored, white and all. The other boys
took it good naturedly, and I was forced to. My salary was the enormous
sum of two dollars and fifty cents a week, which was increased a little
by the “tips” I occasionally received. Unfortunately for me, the boys
around the hotel taught me how to shoot dice, play poker and seven-up,
and even flip-at-the-crack. At none of these games was I a success, and
at the end of the month it was a certainty that I would be “busted.”
After a few months of this I was brought to my senses, however, and
decided to quit the hotel business, since, for me, there was no money in
it, and little prospect of promotion.
Traveling men had patronized the hotel quite liberally, and I had always
marked them as a lot of jolly, happy-go-lucky fellows, whose every
pocket seemed to be lined with gold. Ah, if I could only be one of them
and get on the road! If some house would furnish me a line of samples
and start me out, then I, too, could wear good clothes, have plenty of
money, order some poor fools around in the way I had been ordered, and
perhaps make my mark in the world. I thought then that the only man in
the world was the drummer (and I think so yet for that matter).
Unfortunately, try as I might, I found no way to break into the ranks.
The managers of every wholesale house I went to laughed at me. When I
asked for a position the jobber would always inquire who I had been with
and what I was doing at present. When I answered that I was first
assistant porter and commander-in-chief of the water and coal conveying
department of the Robber Roost Hotel, they would smile and say, “No, my
son; I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything for you today.” You see, I had
neither experience, reputation nor references.
In addition to my personal explorations I scanned the want columns of
the daily papers, in the hope of finding something which would suit my
case. One day I read the following ad.:
“_Wanted_—A young man to canvass and sell our new line of calling cards.
Every lady wants them and buys them on sight. Large sample outfit free.
$15.00 per week easily made.”
To make a long story short, I called at once and made arrangements with
the firm to sell calling cards. In this way I received my first real
start in life, and was initiated into the ranks of Fakirdom.
The nature of my arrangement with the card firm amounted to about this.
They were to furnish samples, I was to solicit orders, collect cash as
the order was taken, turn over half of the money to them, keeping the
other half myself, and they were to fill orders as soon as possible.
Well, I started out the following morning, and I’ll never forget that
day as long as I live. I went clear to the outskirts of the city and
rang my first door bell.
The lady of the house answered in person, and when she faced me I had
neither nerve nor courage to explain my business. I began to grow red in
the face and nervous. I weakly asked for a glass of water, which I
drank, and then departed. I had the same experience at the next house,
and after drinking twelve glasses of water went back to my room,
disgusted with myself and everybody else.
In the afternoon I screwed my courage up a few notches higher and went
out again, with the determination to do or die. I knew I had a fine line
of cards, and the boss told me they would sell themselves. I vowed that
at least they should have a chance. I showed them to a few ladies, and
finally succeeded in taking my first order, for twenty-five cents. With
that I felt encouraged, and went after them right. I did one dollar and
twenty cents worth of business that afternoon, making sixty cents for
myself. Just think of it. A man in the heart of Chicago, with his
fortune all to make, and after walking his legs off all day, coming in
at night with sixty cents as his portion, and board to pay out of it at
that.
But the ice had been broken; the plunge had been made, and I was proud
and happy over the result. I stuck to the card business for some months,
finally getting so I could make from one to two dollars a day at it.
One day I chanced to fall into conversation with a lightning rod agent,
who had taken a room in the house where I boarded. In a short time we
struck up quite a friendship, and he proposed that I should travel with
him. In consideration of my services, which would be only in helping him
put up the rods, he agreed to pay all my expenses, teach me the
business, and allow me to sell calling cards on the side.
I accepted, and here let me say that I never fully realized what a truly
typical lightning rod agent was until I started out with this man. I had
heard of them, and remembered that my father was trimmed up to the tune
of a couple of hundred dollars by one, but I never understood the
breadth of intellect, fertility of resource and depths of trickery
displayed in the legitimate pursuit of this vocation until I had
obtained an inside view of the game.
I traveled with Mr. Carlysle for a long while, working the country, and
the towns as we passed through them. As this is to be largely a record
of my own personal performances, I shall not give the details of this
trip, except that I learned all that was going, which was a great deal.
At the end of it we were on our way to Davenport, Iowa. I was getting
tired of the business, and intended to quit when we reached that
destination. I had twenty-three dollars in cash to show for my seven
months’ work, and figured on fixing myself up a little and looking for a
job. I could not travel and sell calling cards exclusively, since there
was not enough in it to justify the expense, and I thought it high time
for me to look around for some broader and more profitable field.
Just as we got within a mile of the city our horse shied at a runaway
team and Mr. Carlysle was thrown out of the wagon, run over, and both
legs broken. He was taken into the city; and hotel, doctor and medicine
bills broke us both as flat as anything you ever saw.
I tried to get a job, but could not find a thing. I was known as the
lightning rod agent’s friend, and no one would have me at any price. It
seemed as though every one there had a dread, or horror, of a lightning
rod man and all his belongings. Mr. Carlysle was taken to the charity
hospital, while I was turned out of the hotel to hustle the best I
could.
Just imagine! There I was, a perfect stranger, not knowing a soul,
hundreds of miles from home, without a cent in my pocket, and unable to
get a thing to do.
Should I become a tramp, begging at back doors for handouts of broken
victuals; or would it be best to starve and be done with it? One way or
the other, it looked as though these questions would soon have to be
settled.
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